


Invitation

by irisbleufic



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Conversations, Awkward First Times, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Awkward Tension, Awkwardness, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Compliant, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Confessions, First Kiss, First Time, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Murder Husbands, Not Canon Compliant, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Psychopaths In Love, Riddles, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 22:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: Even at a distance, even in the dim light, Oswald could tell that Edward's door was just as he'd left it.  Slightly ajar, not decisively closed as on most mornings.  An invitation, perhaps a warning.[Stand-alone; was originally intended as a PWP.  It still is in some respects.  Riddles adapted from ones found online.]





	Invitation

Fingers still trembling with the warmth of Edward's skin from when he'd wrapped Edward in his dressing gown, Oswald made his way to the kitchen with a sense of purpose. He found Olga perched on a stool at the center island with a book in hand.

He cleared his throat, propping his cane loudly against the counter.

“I see fuss at the club on television,” Olga remarked, snapping the novel shut. “Lucky he is breathing.”

“While I have nothing but deepest respect for you, Olga,” said Oswald, testily, making his way to the refrigerator on legs so stiff and sore he could only use the pain as a point of focus, “get out. Please.”

Olga shrugged and tucked the book, something with a colorful Cyrillic cover, under her arm as she left.

“ _Ty che, blyad_!” she called once she'd achieved a safe distance, back door banging behind her.

 _What the fuck, rude!_ Oswald thought to himself, realizing the irony of having picked up a few profanities from Fish's patrons even though he didn't, broadly speaking, understand Russian.

“Fine,” he conceded to the refrigerator's contents, opening the right-hand drawer. “I deserved that.”

Olga had never questioned his insistence on keeping some fresh ginger peeled and sliced at all times. He fumbled the container open, set it on the island, and went to the china cabinet. He fetched what was fast becoming Edward's favorite teacup, hoping the gesture wouldn't be lost.

It took longer to boil water than he would have liked, but plucking bits of ginger into the teacup and pouring the kettle's contents over them gave him something else on which to focus. Something else to drown out the piercing rage of earlier, the sickening _worry_ for Edward's condition.

Three minutes later, he fished out the pieces of ginger and added Hungarian acacia honey to taste. If there'd been any secret to the preparation, any at all, he knew it was in his mother's insistence that they always keep a jar of some single-blossom varietal they couldn't quite afford. Hungarian _akác_ or German _Rapsflower_ , always: reminders of her parents' homelands an ocean away.

Satisfied that he'd stirred the honey to dissolution, he made his way back to the sitting room with the result. He kept his eyes fixed on the steaming contents until he was sure he could hand it to Edward without sloshing. He took a seat beside Edward, right leg screaming protest.

“It's ginger tea with honey,” said Oswald, lost for words as Edward accepted the cup and saucer. They were so close he could feel the warmth of Edward's thigh nearly pressed against his own. “It's my mother's remedy for a sore throat. You sure you don't need a doctor?”

“No, I'm fine,” Edward said, coughing as he took a sip of tea. He caught Oswald's eye, questioning.

“I still don't understand why you didn't tell me what you were doing,” Oswald replied, hoping to convey the depth of his concern. He didn't have a riddle for this; the nearness of death hung unspoken.

Turning to regard Oswald more decisively, Edward set his tea down on the coffee table with precision.

“Your shock when seeing Butch had to be genuine,” he said apologetically, his gaze candid and startling. “The people had to believe it, and they did. And, once again, you're the city's hero.”

“But you were almost killed,” Oswald replied, finding that it took all of his willpower not to express distaste at the fact that Edward seemed to think _laughter_ was an appropriate response.

“And you saved me,” Edward insisted, already sounding more like himself. “ _Again_.” His voice remained tinged with mirth, and Oswald's eyes stung. “I hope you know, Oswald,” he went on, abruptly sober, “I would do anything for you. You can always count on me.”

Oswald wanted to speak—wanted to say something, _anything_ —but didn't dare look away. Edward's expression had softened, striking in its vulnerability. A plea, perhaps an invitation.

Instead of risking their first kiss in a moment of weakness, Oswald pulled Edward close instead.

“Thank you,” he murmured, marveling at how effortlessly Edward relaxed into him as he splayed one hand between Edward's shoulder blades. He'd wanted to say something else entirely.

Edward clung to him with as much elated fervor as he had on the stage, breath hitching in anticipation.

“I am hot; I am cold,” he said. “I am the parent of numbers that cannot be told. I am a gift beyond measure, a matter of course. I am given with pleasure when taken by force. What am I?”

Oswald shook his head, unable to think with Edward's breath so close, so ticklishly hot against his ear. He rubbed Edward's back, unintentionally rocking him as exhaustion settled in.

“I have no idea,” he sighed, reluctantly drawing back to look Edward in the eyes, “but you're shaking.”

Edward bit his lower lip for a fraction of a second. Something in his posture suggested embarrassment.

“I'm cold,” he said, almost too quickly; Oswald's pulse picked up. “Even though there's a fire, I'm...”

Oswald hugged him again, displeased at Edward's lack of response. He'd probably missed his chance.

“I'm as tired as you are,” he said decisively, releasing Edward, reaching for the teacup and saucer. “Finish this if you can, and then we'll go upstairs. I'll get extra blankets if you need them.”

Edward gulped the rest of his tea in several painful swallows, peering at Oswald over the rim before setting the china back down on the coffee table. He yawned against the back of his hand.

“The goose-down duvet is enough,” he said. “As is the thread-count of your sheets. And they say silk's the warmest thing going,” he added nervously, rubbing at the dressing gown. “I think.”

“I'm sure you would know,” said Oswald, smiling, impossibly charmed at Edward's dithering. He rose from the sofa, determined not to let on that he desperately needed some painkillers. “Shall we?”

Edward was moodily silent the whole way to the top of the stairs, although he gave Oswald a reproachful look when Oswald refused to be dropped off at his room. He let Oswald lead him along to the end of the hall, looking somewhat disappointed.

“Keep that,” Oswald said, brushing at Edward's shoulder as he stepped across the threshold. “For warmth,” he went on uselessly, startled at how striking Edward looked as he turned in profile.

“Think about it?” Edward asked, tilting his chin low as he met Oswald's eyes with inscrutable intent.

Oswald gaped at him for a moment, certain he must be misreading the situation. “Think about what?”

Edward sighed, shoulders slumping as he turned his back again, closing the door a fraction behind him.

“The riddle,” he said from within, already making his way over to the dresser. “Good night, Oswald.”

Oswald stood outside Edward's door for longer than he should have, making far too much noise when he finally limped back toward his room. He felt like slamming the door, but knew that surrendering to a fit of pique would have been overkill. And it would have needlessly concerned Edward. 

He undressed stiffly, tossing his clothes over the stool. He muddled into his old pajamas, indifferent, thoughts stuck on shameless repeat. Even if Edward had wanted— _even if_ —

“Gift beyond measure,” he mumbled, climbing under the covers without regard for the fact that he hadn't bothered with nightly grooming or taking pills. “Whatever it is, I won't take it by force.”

Oswald slipped into an uneasy slumber, where dreams rose to meet him unbidden. Edward in his arms before the fire; Edward impassive beside him. Warm, warm as blood, warm as breath.

 _I don't know the answer_ , Oswald confessed, lips pressed to Edward's cheek. _I love you._

 _That's close enough_ , Edward replied, which he would never say, and kissed him on the mouth.

Waking to the grating sound of his alarm, hard in his pajamas, Oswald knocked his clock off the table.

He'd spent less coherent mornings in the shower, although he couldn't remember ever needing to touch himself this badly. He dried and arranged his hair before struggling into an undershirt, clean boxers, and his pajama trousers. He'd go to breakfast in his dressing gown, to hell with—

 _Well_. His dressing gown was at the end of the hall, and Edward doubtless needed checking on.

Even at a distance, even in the dim light, Oswald could tell that Edward's door was just as he'd left it. Slightly ajar, not decisively closed as on most mornings. An invitation, perhaps a warning.

He'd pushed it open before he even realized what he was doing, approaching the foot of Edward's bed.

Edward lay curled on his side, face buried in the pillow. He'd draped Oswald's dressing gown across the foot of the bed and stripped out of his undershirt, which he'd uncharacteristically left on the floor.

“G'morning,” he mumbled without opening his eyes, one hand coming up to scratch at his forehead.

Oswald took the dressing gown from the foot of the bed, shrugged into it, and approached Edward against his better judgment. He sat down next to him on the mattress just as Edward had once done during Oswald's recovery, letting his fingertips tentatively skim Edward's graceful wrist.

Edward took Oswald's fingers loosely in his grasp, thumb brushing across the back of Oswald's hand.

“I don't...” He coughed into the pillow, squeezing Oswald's hand. “Feel well. Groggy,” he managed.

“It's all right,” Oswald said, squeezing Edward's hand in return before placing it against the pillow. “You don't have to come down just yet. Or—at _all_ , I mean,” he clarified, rising.

“Half hour,” Edward said as Oswald reached the threshold. “Need to get ready, Searle's collecting...”

“Olga will keep something warm for you,” Oswald promised, closing the door carefully behind him.

Leaning heavily on the railing, realizing he'd left his cane in the kitchen the night before, he noted the feel of each stair beneath his bare feet. He listened to the sounds of Olga clattering about with plates and silverware between rooms, comforted as he took his seat at the head of the table.

He thought about how vulnerable Edward had looked moments before, squinting at Oswald from beneath that wavy, recalcitrant mess of hair. How his hand had felt clasped in Oswald's—not for the first time, but _noteworthy_ —and how tempting that glimpse of bare shoulder had been.

Huffing in frustration, Oswald covered his mouth and considered precisely what this meant. There were already orange juice and a hard-boiled egg on the table, but he'd momentarily lost his appetite.

Olga's back-and-forth footfalls grew distant for several seconds, and then began their usual approach.

“What a beautiful morning,” Oswald said, collecting himself. “Sun is shining, birds are singing. They say that fortune favors the brave,” he remarked, turning as she arrived with the remainder of his breakfast on a tray. “They have that saying in your country, Olga?”

“ _Ya ne ponimayu_ ,” she said, setting items out before him with her usual bright efficiency.

“I don't know what you're saying,” Oswald replied, realizing she was still offended from the previous evening. She lapsed adamantly into Russian when she wanted him to know he'd displeased her.

“ _Vash zavtrak gotov_ ,” she went on, a phrase Oswald knew. _Your breakfast is ready_.

“It's not important,” Oswald said, determined to make a trial-run of his confession before an audience who, at least, was judging him for a different reason. “What is important is that I have found someone. What good is love if it's one-sided? I have no choice but to confess my feelings to Ed.”

“ _Da_ ,” Olga said, blinking in what might have been surprise, spreading the napkin across his lap.

“Now that, I understand,” Oswald replied, grateful she hadn't launched into a profanity-laced tirade at his proposed course of action. “It means yes. My mother taught me that. She used to tell me—life only gives you one true love, Oswald; when you find it, run to it. So that is what I'm going to do.” He glanced at where she stood, awaiting orders, to one side. “I'm also going to enroll you in an ESL program. You really should learn the language if you're going to work here.”

Olga rolled her eyes at Oswald, lifted the tray off the table, and left him to his own nervous devices.

Forty minutes later, he'd only managed to eat around half of what was in front of him. He called for Olga to clear it away and make sure there was more held in reserve for Edward. She shouted back.

On his way back upstairs, in the low-lit hall, Oswald knocked directly into Edward. They caught each other on reflex, Edward's hands steady at Oswald's shoulders and Oswald's shaky at Edward's hips.

Edward was fresh from showering and dressing, with his glasses on and not single hair out of place.

“Olga will bring out your breakfast,” Oswald stammered, helplessly admiring how Edward looked.

“I texted Searle a few minutes ago to determine her whereabouts,” Edward said. “That doesn't leave me much time to eat, but I'll try. Handing off homemade explosives is...tricky business.”

“I guess,” said Oswald, distracted by Edward's taut smile as they released each other. “You go on.”

Oswald shouldn't have been surprised when—less than twenty minutes later, as he stood knotting one of his favorite ties—a knock sounded at his door. He straightened his pocket square again, flustered.

“Come in,” he said. “You know I'd rather you kept eating than help me with this like you usually do.”

“I wasn't very hungry,” Edward admitted, peering over Oswald's shoulder at his reflection in the triptych mirror. “I like that pattern,” he commented, reaching around to smooth Oswald's tie.

Oswald held his breath as Edward's hands moved over his front, picking and fussing, while Edward pressed close to Oswald from behind. He couldn't afford a repeat of earlier, he _couldn't_ —

Edward's phone went off, shattering the moment. Edward extracted himself and checked it, frowning.

“She'll be here in just a few minutes,” he said, sparing Oswald's reflection one last glance before dashing back to the door. “I've got an official letter for her to deliver, too, that needs stamping.”

Oswald swallowed hard, staring at his reflection as Edward left the room. He'd been this close to catching Edward's wrists and turning them to face each other, _this_ close to answering the riddle.

He didn't just want to speak the answer, especially now that he knew it. He wanted to _give_ it.

Determined not to waste any more time, Oswald fetched his spare cane and made his way downstairs. Olga was going to get on his case for having left the other one in her domain, but that should, by all rights, be the least of his concerns. He approached Edward's desk just in time to catch Searle, hopefully bound for city hall to see to less inviting matters, on her way out.

“Leave this outside Nicky the Nail's place,” Edward told the administrative assistant, handing her the explosive device with exacting care. “Knock twice,” he instructed. “Light it, and then run.”

“Okay,” Searle replied slowly, carrying away the box and slim envelope, ignoring Oswald's entrance.

“Good morning, Mayor Cobblepot,” Edward said, as if they hadn't already encountered each other twice that morning, as if mindful that Searle might overhear. He was too poised, a sign of unease.

“Good morning to you, my chief of staff,” Oswald replied, distracted once again by how finely the charcoal suit became him. Before Oswald could attempt to speak what was on his mind, Edward offered him a familiar pair of stapled packets.

“Here are your schedules for the day,” Edward explained, handing them off one after the other. “This covers your duties as mayor, and this as kingpin of the underworld.”

“You really are settling into your role here, aren't you, Ed?” Oswald asked, reaching around Edward to place his itineraries on the edge of the desk. He risked offending Edward, but, realizing the wisdom in having his hands free, he propped his cane there, too.

“And yet I...still have so much to learn from you,” said Edward, ever respectful, his brow furrowed.

“ _Oh_ ,” was all that Oswald could manage by way of response, cursing his miscalculation. He wanted to let Edward know he _had_ given the riddle due consideration, but at what cost?

“I came up empty on this morning's initial queries regarding Butch,” Edward forged on, anxiously filling the silence, so practiced in his expressiveness as to deepen Oswald's concern. “Somehow that one-handed ape managed to disappear. I suspect he's hiding with his old crew. I'm sorry for letting you down.”

“You have done nothing of the sort,” Oswald insisted, relieved to see Edward attempt a smile. “I would be...lost without you. In fact, _um_ —” he swallowed, regretting the swiftness with which Edward's smile faded “—there is something that I need to tell you. Something very important.”

There was no forgiving the profoundness of his hesitation, of his inability to lend fragile words breath.

“What is it, Oswald?” Edward prompted, the sympathy in his expression renewing Oswald's courage.

Oswald opened his mouth, shifting his weight to the right, using the flare of pain to spur his resolve.

“I consider it shameful,” he said, hating himself for the way his voice wavered, “that it took almost losing you last night to make me realize that I—” He paused, watching Edward's eyes widen behind the partial glare off his lenses. “Ed, I have feelings for you.”

“Feelings?” Edward echoed, his expression backsliding from faint worry to unmasked bewilderment.

“I'm in love with you,” said Oswald, doing his level best to frame it as an apology. His confession had gone dreadfully, _dreadfully_ wrong, but there was no turning back. “I have been,” he explained. “For a while now, I think. Since well into our visits while you were in Arkham, anyway, and I—”

“Shared between two, most often to woo,” Edward interrupted, taking a decisive step forward. “Sometimes hot, and sometimes cold. The beginning of us all, young and old. What am I?”

“Ed,” Oswald began, hardly daring to hope he'd read the first riddle right, much less this shorter variant, “are you asking me to kiss you, or are you asking for permission to kiss _me_?”

“Yes,” said Edward, frowning almost immediately. “No. I mean— _maybe_? Wait, yes. Both.”

Oswald took a step toward him in precisely the same moment Edward decided to take yet another.

“You were asking me to kiss you last night, weren't you?” he asked, his breath shamefully uneven.

Edward nodded, visibly shaking, and took Oswald's face in both of his entrancingly precise hands.

“Yes, and more than that,” he admitted. “I wanted to ask you to stay with me. All night, Oswald.”

Oswald leaned into the kiss for all he was worth. He laughed along with Edward at the unfortunate clash of teeth, of Oswald's forehead against his glasses. He set his hands on them, asking for permission.

Edward removed his glasses and set them on the desk, pulling Oswald back into his arms. Easier, this time, with Edward hunching forward so that Oswald didn't have to strain. Edward tasted like orange juice and toast, smelled like subdued cologne and winter sunshine. Had he gone outside?

“Ed,” Oswald mumbled against Edward's lips, letting his hand rest at the small of Edward's back when all he got in response was a choked moan. “ _Ed_. Do we have any appointments?”

“PS 134,” said Edward, miserably, panting as they drew apart. “You're touring a school. Press will be there, so we...better get a move on.” Contrarily, he pressed against Oswald, and— _oh_.

“I don't think,” said Oswald, soothingly, his world narrowing to the feel of Edward hard against him, “that we're going anywhere right now.” He slid his hand lower, giving Edward's backside a tentative caress, giving him permission to press closer if he wanted. “You're in no shape for that.”

Edward nodded tersely, burying his nose in Oswald's hair as Oswald pushed against him in response.

“Can I take you over to the sofa?” Oswald whispered, terrified. “Or should we just...retire upstairs?” 

Edward shivered and clung to him, nodding harder. “I'm not, I'm...not sure I want Olga to walk in on...”

“No, of course not,” Oswald murmured, astonished to find himself overwhelmed with the desire, first and foremost, to take care of him. “Let's—Ed, _no_. Forget the agendas.”

Edward reluctantly left the papers behind, dragging one onto the floor as Oswald tugged him away.

“I think my bed is too small,” he said sheepishly, stalling when they reached the top of the staircase.

“That's why we're not _going_ to your bed,” said Oswald, with mild impatience, guiding Edward into his bedroom. He shut and locked the door behind them, watching as Edward obediently took a seat on the edge of the mattress and removed his shoes. “How far do you...want to take this?”

Edward licked his lips, making impressively fast work of unbuttoning his shirt and loosening his tie.

“It's not like I'm an expert,” he said. “You'd be surprised how little happened when I tried this with...”

“No,” said Oswald, kicking his shoes off, taking the chance to step into Edward's space. “I wouldn't.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” said Edward, gazing up at Oswald somewhat petulantly as Oswald pressed both palms to his blush-tinged cheeks. “You aren't being serious, are you?”

“Yes and no,” Oswald admitted, kissing him softly. “I think you're...slow on the up-take, is all.”

Edward moaned more urgently than before, throwing his weight backwards, pulling Oswald with him.

“I want you,” he said, breath hitching as Oswald dazedly settled on top of him. “Want you to touch me, want you to...” He flushed, searching for words as Oswald lifted up slightly and obliged him with a firm hand between Edward's legs. “I want you to...make love to me however you think...”

“Why don't we take our clothes off,” Oswald suggested, unable to resist resorting to affectionate sarcasm, “and see how things go from there?”

Undressing was easier said than done, because Edward pulled him back into a kiss before Oswald could work out the logistics of finishing the job Edward had started. He was content to let Edward do this for as long as he wanted, not least because he knew they'd come sooner than not.

“If you like this,” he breathed in Edward's ear, rubbing languidly against him, “we can keep doing it.”

“But I want you to take my clothes off,” Edward protested, the reaction automatic. “ _And_ yours.”

“All that trouble to dress,” Oswald muttered, sitting up so that he could shed his upper layers, admiring Edward flushed and panting beneath him, “when I easily could have slipped into your bed.”

“Sorry,” Edward muttered, propping himself up long enough to struggle out of his shirt and jacket. “I shouldn't have resorted to...” He let Oswald roll off him, unfastening his trousers in haste.

“You propositioned me the only way you knew how,” Oswald said, shedding his trousers and underthings in a brusque fit of embarrassment. “At least I got the message.”

Edward, naked now as he knelt in the middle of the bed, studied Oswald with unreadable intensity.

“If you don't like what you see,” said Oswald, coy so as to hide his insecurity, “you should say so.”

“No,” Edward sighed, reaching for him. “That's not it,” he said, dragging Oswald along until they hit the pillows and rucked covers in a breathless, heated tangle. “Very much the...reverse.”

Oswald kissed him, settling so they were back in much the same alignment as before. Skin against skin, Edward wasn't just warm; he was hot, fever-hot, hot as a furnace. He nuzzled Edward's cheek.

“This should feel much better now,” he managed, testing the rhythm they'd set before. “Does it?”

“You're—you're _hard_ ,” gasped Edward, disbelieving, pressing up to meet Oswald's unhurried grind. “You feel—” He twisted beneath Oswald, restless with urgency. “I, _oh_ , I need to—”

“You're so beautiful I can't help it,” Oswald panted. He stroked the backs of Edward's trembling thighs, getting a sense that Edward was even closer to the edge than he was. “I want to see you—”

“Oh, oh, _shit_ ,” Edward gasped, the profanity so attractively unexpected against the backdrop of Edward's habitual propriety that it hit Oswald square in the gut. “Oswald, I'm going to—”

He didn't finish the thought, but the sound he made instead rendered that failure entirely forgivable.

Oswald kissed him, hitching Edward's legs up tighter about his hips, rocking him through wave after wave of it. He watched Edward's expression shift from over-sensitized shock to what he _hoped_ was sheer bliss. That Edward's eyes never once closed, never once left Oswald's, felt like a gift.

“ _Ed_ ,” Oswald breathed, pecking Edward's cheek as his hips stuttered. “Just look at you, just...”

He trembled, feverish, orgasm pulsing through him even as Edward, grinning shakily, began to recover.

“So the take-away,” said Edward, entirely too smug for as quickly as they'd come, nuzzling Oswald's cheek in return, “is that multiple riddles with the same answer get results.”

“Don't push your luck,” Oswald muttered into the pillow, exhaling in satisfaction. “ _Mmm_.”

“Are you in love with me,” Edward ventured without so much as skipping a beat, “or in lust with me? Those are sometimes two different things, and...given how fast this happened, I...”

Oswald lifted his head and blinked at Edward in dismay, stroking Edward's hair back from his temple.

“I wasn't clear enough, was I,” he said, chagrined. “I want to share my life with you, Ed. I want you at my side no matter where we are. I want to make sure your every need is provided for, up to and including—” he cupped Edward's cheek and kissed him for emphasis, pressing suggestively against him “—both your material comfort and your physical well-being. How's that?”

Edward shivered and whimpered into the kiss, impatient, already half-hard against Oswald's belly.

“Please, _Oswald_ ,” he managed, clinging all the more tightly. “I think I...really want that, too.”

Oswald lifted up just enough to stroke him with gentle curiosity, admiring Edward's cock in his hand.

“ _Already_?” he scoffed. “Insatiable, aren't you. Why don't you lie back and let me try...”

Edward choked as Oswald took the head between his lips and sucked until he was fully erect again.

“As long as we...as long as we can,” he panted, “take a break later so I can... _reschedule_...”

“You won't be rescheduling anything today,” Oswald reassured him, pausing just long enough to kiss Edward's belly, casting him an adoring glance. He fished through his trousers for his phone, shoving them off the bed. Flipping it open, he sent a perfunctory text to Searle. “I promise you that.”

Edward nodded faintly, eyes closing on a relieved sigh, as Oswald got back to the business at hand.

**Author's Note:**

> This stand-alone was meant to be nothing more than a PWP for a couple of my friends, but the desire to set Oswald's attempted confession _directly_ on the morning after The Sirens incident, what when I'd [**left a full week between those events last time**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10605213), drove me to back up and frame this with more plot and context. I named the admin assistant Searle for previous purposes, too, so I didn't see any reason to give her a different name here. I also set the bomb hand-off and confession scene at city hall when I covered this before, when in actuality that's happening at the mansion. Therefore, I've reverted back to having it happen at the mansion as it does in canon; I wanted to see exactly how the logistics of that evening into the next morning would've needed to run. Also, something goes _very_ differently here. I decided to poke another of the possible what-if points, because that's fun.


End file.
